


Sex, Death & Other Questions

by BenLMoore, Tanyk (BenLMoore)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Children, Drug Abuse, M/M, Sam is a Saint, Suicidal Dean Winchester, Suicidal Thoughts, Teacher Sam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:48:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 15,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22192069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenLMoore/pseuds/BenLMoore, https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenLMoore/pseuds/Tanyk
Summary: Dean Smith has impeccable taste and a unique death wish.Sam Campbell is an elementary school teacher drowning in regret.What happens when the young ghosts of Dean’s past clash them together?
Relationships: Sam/Dean
Comments: 33
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a work of fiction with true elements.  
> The children are closely based on a family of foster kids my parents took in when I was a kid. Other elements of the various relationships are also based on people I know or news stories. 
> 
> I'm going to bypass the tags and just write.  
> Hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Comments are always gratefully received.

Everything changes the day Kevin dies.

On the drive home from the hospital, Sam winds down his window, praying for the brisk pre-dawn air to keep him awake. He rubs his bloodshot eyes and tries to focus on the road while his mind loops the last five hours.

“911. What’s your emergency?”

Kevin’s head lolling on Sam’s arm. Vomit dribbling down the UM mascot on his shirt: the feisty turtle with its fists on its hips. The decision not to wait for the ambulance. Driving twice the speed limit. Running red lights. Praying the whole way.

“Jesus, Kevin.”

Kevin slumped in Sam’s passenger seat, twitching like an epileptic. Drool leaking from the lax corner of his mouth. A soft moan. Then nothing. Perfectly still.

If Sam had lived further from the hospital? If the cops had pulled him over…

He’d parked illegally at the emergency room door and carried Kevin’s limp body inside. 109 pounds of crazy, crazy boy. Classified: Flyweight.

The security guard yelled to move his car. Instead, Sam delivered Kevin to the desk. Dead weight. DOA.

What if Sam hadn’t let him in the house?  
What if Sam had said, “No,” two years ago, when he first had the chance?

Tonight could have been avoided if Sam had been smarter, stronger, wiser, better. A brain can get lost in a haze of what-ifs and perfect hindsight.

He’d left the hospital after 3 AM. Will have to report to work again in four hours. Five, if he skips the shower.

At a traffic light, Sam rubs both eyes and suppresses a yawn. As he continues down a commercial section of Connecticut Avenue, something on the right side of the road catches his eye. Sam blinks, squints and then slams on the brakes.

At this hour, the closest car behind him has plenty of time to swerve around and lay on the horn. Sam’s abrupt stop caught that driver off guard, but they’re also probably on their phone.

He sits behind his wheel, adjusting his rearview mirror to be sure he’s seeing what he’s seeing. Tapping on his hazard lights, he shifts into reverse and carefully backs up the car until he’s a few yards ahead of the naked body on the sidewalk.

What is with this night?

A few deep, measured breaths to calm his overactive heart. Another car passes. The driver cranes their neck for a view, but doesn’t even slow down.

There is a nude human being facedown on the sidewalk and Sam is the only person who stops. Maybe no one else stops because he’s here. They assume it’s taken care of. Maybe if he drives on, the next person will pull over and take care of it. He doesn’t have to rescue the whole world. Isn’t that what Amelia always tells him?

  
“You don’t have to save the whole world, Sam.”

But he’s watching through the mirror, willing the man to stir, to stand and shake off whatever got him into this position.

Sam hums a melody below his breath: Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring in B flat. It doesn’t help.

Another car passes.  
Is no one else seeing this?

Pulling over was more reflex than intention. Now, it would be indecent to drive away without at least calling the police. Sam drops his head on the steering wheel, stealing a ten-second nap and grasping for prayer.

“God…”

His father made sure Sam can do better than that, but that one word is all the faith as he can muster tonight.

Before placing a call, it’s a citizen’s duty to inform himself of the state of things so he can properly indicate whether the first responders should be paramedics or law enforcement. (Incidentally, Sam considered both of those fields before college.)

Time’s ticking. If the person does need help, Sam’s hesitation could cost another life tonight. He opens the door and steps gingerly from his car. His phone poised in his hand, 911 pre-dialed, thumb triggered to send.

“Sir?”

It’s clearly a man from this close. Muscular limbs. Street lamps glimmer off pale skin. No reply. One bare foot is hanging in a gutter. A black trash bag is affixed to the other ankle with a rubber band.

“Sir, are you all right?”

All at once, the naked man rolls over and jackknifes: feet and head rising simultaneously, forcing out a loud exhale. He screams, claws the air like a rabid animal. Sam’s veins run frigid with terror.

The man squints up, a remarkably handsome face calm for a moment before he vomits all over his legs and erect penis. Sam leaps back in time to spare his shoes.

Military dog tags dangle around the man’s neck. A veteran? They are notorious for drug abuse.

The stranger rasps, “What the fuck do you want?”

Sam returns to his car, places the call and waits until he hears sirens before driving way. The protocol would be to stay, but he can’t take any more questioning tonight. He doesn’t know this guy’s answers.

Sometimes, Sam doesn’t even know his own.


	2. Chapter 2

(Thursday) 10/21 - 85 Days 

There are elegant ways to die. Naked on the sidewalk of Connecticut Avenue is not among them. 

The last time Dean tried to die, he was young. Lacked conviction and finesse. At 13, he’d leaped off an overpass, broke both legs, scraped up his cheek, and kept on breathing.   
He wasn’t trying to die tonight. Just practicing for the grand finale.

Good Samaritans are not the norm. The norm is every car that drives by. So, when Dean awakens in a dark, warped world with a giant leering over him, he assumes the guy is a freak and tells him to fuck off. 

Safe again, to suffer this vicious migraine. And to assess that his nude ass on the very cold sidewalk. 

Could be worse. Hurling helped. 

In the distance, sirens are howling his song.

A shiver rises from the core of his bones, clacking his teeth together. 

What day is it? 

There’s an orchestra of scents on the air: exhaust, smog, dirt, vomit, shit. Cars. People. Rats. What they call civilization. 

There are pros and cons to laying down for a few more winks. The earth is spinning, but not in the usual, preferable, imperceptible way. In more of a menacing, tilt-o-whirl, anything-else-to-throw-up? way. Standing might not go well.

Jumping into oncoming traffic is a common way to go. All Dean would have to do is roll into the street. 

He’s worked too hard on his beautiful body to have it mangled that way. It'd be a damn shame to get tire tracks on this face. The intention has always been to preserve his looks for the final viewing. If anyone shows up, that’s how they’ll remember him. Besides, adult Dean is way too creative for that basic, middle school shit. He’s going out with a bang. Already planned.

  
His ass is humming. Bones are creaky. The street sign is too far to see. Dawn’s early light isn’t yet bright enough. The metallic sour on his tongue is too thick to scrape away with his teeth. 

Also, where are his clothes? 

He was almost certainly wearing them when he left home this evening. Turning his head stirs a fresh wave of nausea, but also reveals a black garbage bag.   
If his cell phone is in there, Dean will thank the god of small favors and the host of the party he attended. 

He spits on the ground and claws through the bag until he finds his briefs. Breathing heavily, he twists his leaden legs into them just as the sirens blare closer but muffled as if ascending from underwater. 

The flashing lights. The slowing traffic. All very exciting. 

While Dean was putting in time at JP Morgan Chase, he had a co-worker, Charlotte Something, who buckled her seven-year-old son into the passenger’s seat and parked her Subaru Outback on a set of railroad tracks. 

Can’t remember the kid’s name at all. Dean had once been compelled by social decency to shake the boy’s hand at a holiday party. People were watching, otherwise, Dean would have declined. Children = yuck.

Germs. Snot. Crying. Questions. No.

After Charlotte and little Whatever-his-name-was died, everyone moaned how cruel it was for her to kill him, too. In Dean’s eyes, it considerate not to leave the kid to burden someone else. No loose ends. Just adios. 

Maybe the nice paramedics will help Dean into his pants because his hands are useful as crab claws at the moment. 

The first EMT isn’t much older than twenty. Dark, curly hair, swarthy skin. Latin, maybe Croatian. What the hell is with Croatian men?

This thing is a gorgeous, young reason to have an emergency. The responder's squat is perfect form. Probably spends a few hours at the gym on his days off.

“Are you able to hear me, sir?” 

Nodding is too much motion. The sidewalk is already sliding off the side of the earth.

“My name is Quinn. I’m here to help you. Do you know where you are?” 

When Dean declines to respond, Quinn lifts the dog tag around his neck, shines a flashlight, and reads aloud: 

“My name is Dean Smith. I belong to no one. I live at ...” Quinn raises a brow and grins. “I take it this has happened before.” 

Dean takes it Quinn is right. He hadn’t even known that chain was there, but he’s slowly doing the math. 

“Mildred Baker,” Quinn reads the back of the tag. “Is that your wife?” 

“Not likely.” 

Usually, Dean handles his candy better than this. But he and his chemist have been getting experimental lately. Dean asked for oblivion. Ash delivered. 

“Is it all right if I check your vitals?” 

Quinn can check any damn thing he wants. Dean blinks. His dick is hard. There may have been blue pills in the mix he took tonight. Dean doesn’t mind an erection if Quinn doesn’t. 

“Your eyes are crazy dilated,” the young man announces while shining that tiny flashlight into the recesses of Dean’s brain. “And your blood pressure is really high, sir.” 

“And you’re really fucking adorable.” Dean pats the boy’s lightly stubbled face. 

Quinn snakes out of his reach. “Are you able to stand?” 

With the gracious aid of his new boyfriend and a stocky, female partner, Dean rises on wobbly legs. Cuteness holds him upright while the girl pulls up his slacks and helps Dean into his shirt. He can’t feel his fingers. Buttoning will have to wait.

“Sir, I think it’s best if we get you over to the hospital,” the girl-tech says. 

Why do they let women do this kind of work? It’s just awkward.

A team of wild antelope could not drag Dean to the hospital - to be held overnight while their lab fails to identify the chemical cocktail in his bloodstream? If this drug takes him out, Dean will croak in his bed.

“No, thanks, honey. But I could use a ride home.” 

Dean’s pretty sure he owns a car. Also sure he was at a party. And that the address of said party is on the passenger seat of said car, wherever it might be. The good people of this party were decent enough to put his phone, keys, and wallet (though relieved of cash) into his traveling case (AKA: black plastic bag). 

“I’m afraid, we can’t do that,” she says.

“You could.” Dean smirks. “I mean, who’s going to stop you, right?” 

Quinn shrugs at his partner. She rolls her eyes.

“We’re not a taxi,” she says and tromps to the front of the vehicle. 

Quinn supports Dean under one arm and helps him climb into the back of the ambulance. He wraps a scratchy grey blanket around Dean’s shoulders. Once they’re both strapped in on either side of the gurney, Quinn taps the metal side of the truck. 

“Would you like me to replenish your fluids?” 

Is it possible that young Quinn doesn’t know how suggestive that sounds? Or is this how medical professionals flirt? 

“Have you ever been with a man?”

The kid’s mouth falls open. It takes him a moment to recover and answer with a subdued smile, “This probably isn’t the best time for picking up people.”

Then again, there is a bed and all this gear. The back of an ambulance is one of the few places Dean’s never done it. He could leave Quinn with some freaky memories. 

“Have you ever—” 

Quinn lowers his face and laughs. 

“Is that a yes? Holy shit, I knew it. Here, take my number.” Hopefully, Dean can remember his number. 

“I’m not into guys, man,” Quinn says. “But my brother is.” 

“Oh, god, yes. Is he hung? I don’t need exact numbers. Just...” Dean uses his fingers to get a ballpark range. 

Quinn shakes his head, still laughing. “You guys...” 

“Seriously. Your number. His. I’m not picky.” 

Factually, Dean is incredibly selective, but if Quinn’s brother is anywhere near as cute, he’s a candidate. Sadly, the ambulance comes to a stop before Dean can convince the kid to give up any information. 

Nurse Rachet opens the double doors, frowning like her mother spit in her formula and she’s never recovered. 

Dean thanks his drivers and wobbles away on the one shoe that survived. 

At 3:37 AM, he enters his building, dragging his empty bag like a deflated Santa Claus. He presses every button in the elevator and leans his face against the nice, cool steel wall.

Hopefully, he’ll know the correct floor when the doors open again. Twelve feels right. 

Held up by the wall, Dean drags his club feet down the freakishly long funhouse hall. The current plan is to enter his apartment and crash, face first, in the middle of the floor. 

The keys turn in the door and jingle into the bowl on the credenza. Dean toes off his shoe and doesn’t bother flipping on the light. 

One step, and then he freezes.  
If he were prone to heart attacks, he’d be prone. 

Standing in his hallway is a black teenager with wild corkscrews of hair flying around an attractive round face. Both of his hands are spread in a placating gesture that is not working. Dean is not placated, but he’s fucking sober now. A straight shot of adrenaline will do that. 


	3. Chapter 3

“Straight shot of misery…”

That’s a song. Sam met the composer on tour, but that was in another life. Beth Something. Not a great guitarist. Hell of a songwriter.

Funny how the distant past can sneak into the present and feel more surreal than a weird dream. Sam is not that kid on tour anymore.

He’s the guy on the front porch of the house his grandparents left him with his head spinning in the opposite direction of reality. It would be easier to faint than to keep moving forward, but since when has Sam chosen what’s easier?

He showers and gets into his pajamas. Applies iodine to his scraped cheeks.

For a while, he lays in bed staring at the ceiling. First, he replays the last year. Then, it’s the events of this night. The fiasco with Kevin. That naked man who is now running through Sam’s mind.

Not in a lewd way, (although he was …something.)

An adult man helpless and exposed is not easy to forget. A physically beautiful specimen in that predicament is difficult to process. Although he was obviously strung out on drugs, the man was too well-kept to be homeless. Nobody’s victim but his own.

One could say the same thing about Kevin. He made a choice.  
He makes awful choices, over and again while Sam struggles like a one-armed swimmer to keep both of their heads at the surface.

Could Sam have helped more? Was it wrong to leave?

It’s time to sleep. Stop thinking about Kevin. Stop thinking about Naked Guy.

Easy prescription. Hard to swallow.

Sam grabs his cellphone from the bedside table. A disinterested voice on the other end answers for: “Washington Adventist Hospital.”

Sam hangs up. Stands up.

From the bathroom cabinet, his grandfather’s sleeping pills offer relief. Just for tonight, he could take a few and pass out. It’s just a muscle relaxant. Nothing habit-forming.

Instead, Sam shuffles to the green room, reaches under the table lamps and snaps off a sprig of fresh lavender and a few leaves of chamomile.

Boiled to infusion and strained. He sips the steaming aromatic brew and waits for the herbs to soothe his nerves. It’s 4 AM on a Thursday. Even with an herbal infusion, Sam is functioning on fumes.

He fires up his laptop.

Observation notes for all 25 of his kids are due tomorrow morning. That’s how he should have spent this night, instead of with Kevin Tran in the ER.

David Akers.

The cursor blinks. Sam’s fingers hover over the keyboard. He can see little Davey’s face behind his eyes: brown eyes. Bone straight hair two clicks from ginger. Acts out. Squints. Probably needs glasses. And a spanking, though Sam would never suggest the latter.

He types nothing. Closes the document and opens Facebook. Three new friend requests from former students. Sam shuts the computer and goes back to bed to wait for morning. Tomorrow has to be better.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

“Listen,” the kid says. “Don’t freak out.”

Good joke. Dean is beyond freaking out. He’s dashing to the kitchen for anything to defend life and limb.

Jesus, he should own a gun. Why doesn’t he own a gun? If he owned a gun, this kid would have already shot him. Although the kid isn't holding a gun, he could have one concealed. All these young, black guys are packing these days. This one could kill Dean in his own home and steal his wallet or his phone or whatever he’s after. And that would be that.

Dean knocks his wooden spoons onto the floor as he grabs a skewer. It’s not great, but it’s pointy. The kid stands back and keeps his hands raised.

“Man, calm down.”

Dean will calm down when he’s a cold corpse on this kitchen floor.  
On the other hand, if he stabs this kid, it’s going to get blood all on him.

Jesus. Why is this happening? Dean is a good person.  
Okay, so maybe not, but he doesn’t deserve this bullshit while his head is still humming from his weird high. Why don't burglars break in when people are completely sober?

“I’ll give you anything,” he says. “Just...”

He hurls his wallet onto the floor between their feet.

The kid stares at it and curls up his nose. “Would you fucking listen, man?”

Oh dear lord. Profanity means escalation.

Murdered by an intruder is a wasteful, unglamorous death. Then again, maybe they’ll put a picture on the 7:00 news. Might even make the paper. Dean is nothing if not photogenic. All across this town, men will read the article and say, “Hey, I fucked that guy once.”

This burgling kid is a looker, too. Shame he’s turned to a life of crime when he could have done well as a rentboy.

But this is no time for career advice. Dean lunges with his paltry weapon. The kid dodges and shouts, “Dude, please!”

Dean strikes again. This time, the kid grabs the broom from the nook beside the fridge. He cracks Dean’s jaw and his forearm until the skewer clanks to the floor. That familiar salt and copper cocktail floods Dean’s tongue.

At once, the kid drops the broom, apologizing.

It was a crap idea to swashbuckle with a common criminal like the dread pirate Roberts. Dean’s hand is plastered to his chin, holding in his teeth.

“Look,” the kid says, hands wide to show that he’s harmless. “Listen, my mom said to tell you she’ll be back in 2 days with some money.”

His mom? Money? It’s crazy talk. This kid must be higher than he is.

Dean runs out of the door and leaves the hoodlum yelling behind him.

There’s a key on his ring to Mildred’s place, in case she kicks it before Dean does. The old broad thinks that being 75 to his 39 makes her likely to go first. Little does she know.

He slips into the apartment and slams the door, huffing in the stale cigar smoke and coffee. Leaning against her door, he dials on his cell phone:

9-1-

“Put your fucking hands up.”

The lights flick on and the old bat is armed. She’s talked about her guns, but he’d chalked it up to humor. Dean puts up his fucking hands.

“Mill. It’s me.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

She doesn’t lower the weapon, though and her hands aren’t trembling. It would have been preferable not to see her in her nightgown, but that can’t be undone.

“Mildred,” Dean repeats. “It’s me.”

“You going to rape me?”

Not unlikely, honey. Dean explains, “There’s someone in my place.”

“What?” She marches past as if she’d been called to the scene of the crime.

Dean stops her with a hand on her shoulder and carefully tries to disarm her. She shoves him and yanks the gun away, “You do not touch a woman’s firearm, Dean Smith.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

Shot by the old lady next door would be an even stupider way to die.

“I just want to call the police,” Dean says. “Can I do that?”

“Call ‘em.”

The kid talked as if he knew Dean, but there’s no way in heaven or hell that’s true. Never, in Dean’s entire life, has he touched someone so young. When Dean was that kid’s age, he wouldn’t have gone near anyone who wasn’t at least a decade older.

He’s always preferred a man who could lift him from his feet and put him in his place. These days, that’s harder to come by than it once was. A few nights ago, some punk called him Daddy in the club. Some things change while others fall apart.

Dean is not opposed to fucking younger guys, but only psychos screw children. That kid was 15. 16 tops. Plenty of men love a skinny, little twink.  
For Dean, it’s a hard no.  
He doesn’t know that boy.

It was a robbery, plain and simple. It’s the only plausible explanation. Dean dials the final 1 -

“911. What’s your emergency?”


	5. Chapter 5

Sam searches, prematurely, for news on Naked Guy. There's nothing about a man on the side of the road. Maybe there will be tomorrow. Maybe even a line about drivers who could have helped and abandoned him there. 

Sam scrubs a hand over his scalp.   
Back over to Facebook where there’s a message from Brady and a message from the pastor.   
Again, he clicks away. Hasn’t posted anything in over a year, but people never stop trying.

Sleep’s not going to happen, so he settles on the sofa with a second batch of his concoction. He aims his remote at the TV, but nothing on networks or Netflix that holds his attention for more than a few minutes. No title from his bedside stack of books is any better. 

Pacing is good. There’s a lot of pacing in Sam’s life these days: back and forth across the living room. There’ll be grooves in the carpet soon. 

He stands on the back porch and stare into the dark. No stars visible this close to the city but pretending this air is fresh helps.

Eventually, Sam makes his way to the bathroom - at first for the usual reasons. Then, he finds himself holding the bottle of expired prescription sleep aids in his hand. He runs a thumb over his grandfather’s name: Samuel Campbell. The old man had needed these and the painkillers around the clock in those horrendous, final days.  
Hell, Sam’s name is on the bottle.   
He rattles two into his palm, then four, then more. 

Deep breath and then puts them all back.

Eventually, he crawls back into bed.

It’s been years, but The Lord’s Prayer still rattles off his tongue easy as water flows.   
Still, the familiar words calm him even less than the tea.


	6. Chapter 6

When the cops arrive, Dean opens Mildred’s door. He holds out an arm to keep her behind him. That doesn’t stop her from chirping up, “What did he want?”

Dean can’t put his hand over her mouth with the officer there, so he smiles. He does not care what the kid wanted. All he wants is his apartment cleared.

“Dean smith?” The officer says, referring to a notepad like it’s the most complex thing he’ll say all night. 

Dean bites his sharp tongue and nods.

“Kid says he knows you.” 

“He’s lying.”

“That’s a load of garbage,” Nice of Mildred to help. Now, if she would just shut up.

The perp - isn’t that what they call them? - That kid could have read Dean’s name on an envelope. He shakes his head. “No way.”

“That’s what I figured,” the cop says. “The only thing is, why would he stick around the apartment after you’ve left? He had to know you’d call us.”

Dean is the victim. Is he supposed to be the detective here, figuring out the motives of teenage delinquents?

“I don’t know.” Dean says, “Drugs?”

And immediately regrets it. 

If the law goes looking for substances, they will find. Most of it, they’ll be unable to identify, but none of Dean’s stash is legal.

“Yeah. That’s our assumption, too,” the cop says. “He’s pretty agitated, though. Insistent. Otherwise, cooperative.”

Oh. Big words. Look who’s getting all fancy.  
Dean would like to do some insisting, too. Take that little hoodlum and put him behind bars somewhere so upstanding citizens can get to their beds.

“We’re going to go ahead and get him out of here for you.”

Good. Finally.

“You might want to get a little rest, come down in the morning, and press charges.”

Dean nods and accepts the business card. The cops leave, finally, with the boy in cuffs. Dean watches through Mildred’s keyhole as they lead him away. Then he turns to Mildred.

“What a crazy fucking night?”

“You want to take this?”

She’s offering her gun. Normally, Dean would say she’s a crazy, second amendment worshipping old bat, but tonight, he accepts. 

Mildred assures him, “I’ve got another where that came from.”

Dean will be purchasing one tomorrow. “Thanks, Mil.”

“Any time, kid. You be careful out there.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Shaken up as he is, Dean would almost hug her, but they are not huggy people. They’re not even really exactly friends. Their connection is symbiotic. She’s an elderly woman with no family. Dean is a young-ish man with no friends - by choice.   
No one needs the headache of a wide circle of friends. Who can you trust in this world besides yourself? Also, fewer worries come Christmas time.  
Still, occasionally one has requirements. Like tonight, Mildred came in handy.   
That’s what they are to each other: convenient. 

Dean stares across the expanse of the hallway for a long moment before crossing the distance. 

“You want to stay here the night?” Mildred is lighting one of her clove cigars. 

All the excitement will probably keep her up for a while, too, but Dean would rather get a hotel room than accept more hospitality than he’d want to give.

With a deep breath, checking that the pistol is fully loaded, he eases back to and through his door. It’s been a while since he handled a gun. He’d forgotten how heavy these things can be. 

Even though the cops have cleared out the place, he enters slowly, flick on the lights, checks in the hall closet, and then sighs in relief. The danger has been lead away in white plastic restraints that looks like a bag tie. 

Dean fills a glass of water at the sink. Refreshed and exhausted, he wipes his brow and slumps onto the sofa. He’ll probably sleep here. No good escape from the bedroom. Clutching Mildred’s gun in one hand and his phone in the other, he lets his eyes slip shut. 

They pop open at the sound of shuffling. He stops breathing for a few seconds to be sure he’s not going insane. 

Movement in the corner of his eye proves to be a small swarm of brown children scurrying like roaches past the coach. The yelp that escapes Dean’s mouth is not masculine, nor is he ashamed of it. 

He raises the phone and begins to dial.

One of the kids shouts, “Get that.” 

Another one lunges and snatches away the phone and gun. Then, the child apologizes while training the gun on Dean’s face. What is with these polite criminals?

The kid tosses the phone across the room but it’s not worth making a dive for it.

Dean sits back, pulse thumping, eyes searching the room, taking inventory of his attackers. 

The gunman is about the same age as the boy the cops took away. If that kid was cute, this one is the devil’s artwork. Bronze skin, copper curls with streaks of gold. Grecian nose: full, pink lips and bright, frightened gray eyes.

Dean could likely knock or kick the gun from his hands, but then what? Is he going to hold a bunch of children at gunpoint? Because that’s what they are.

It’s surreal, like a Gondry dream sequence. Dean has been taken hostage by Oompa Loompas. 

There’s the godling. And another funny-looking, younger boy. He’s got huge eyes and teeth that won’t let his lips close. A wild-eyed toddler is hanging from his back like a lesser primate. Beside them, a small raven-haired girl with fierce black eyes stares like she’s plotting Dean’s demise. 

“We just need to stay here for two days,” the boy with the teeth says.

The other one’s hands are beginning to shake. 

“Our mom will be back, just like Apollo told you. And she’ll bring money in case we break anything.”

“Your mom?” Dean shouts. The kid with the gun jumps and Dean tones down his voice. “This is crazy, you know that? I don’t know your mother. Leave me alone.”

He has a headache and kind of wants to cry. The most he can piece together of this nutty narrative is that the one who got arrested was their older brother. Some woman sent them to the wrong place. It’s kind of pitiful. Some other Dean Smith in this town is responsible for all these rats. This Dean does not envy him and wouldn’t trade places for all the gold in Fort Knox.

“Listen,” he says, with his best ‘I’m a good grown-up voice’. “Those police officers can send nice people to come and —“

“NO!” The little girl screams like someone is torturing her.

Dean’s trap snaps shut.

The little spokeskid with the messed up teeth continues, “She told us you’d try to call the People. You can’t do that. No people. They’ll separate us.”

The People, as the kid calls them, will also make Dean fill out a bunch of papers and answer questions. 

“Look. I’m not your father, okay.”

That is absolutely, biologically guaranteed. There is no way in space, heaven, or hell unless someone has been stealing his DNA samples and putting them into black women as part of some sort of twisted experiment.

It is plausible that Dean accidentally boned a girl once or twice in a high stupor. But four times, the same chick - and these kids are siblings - No way.  
Call Maury Pauvich.   
Dean, you are not the father.

Some paleface man somewhere is responsible for this band of beautiful, little hybrids. (The weird-looking one is an anomaly). Not Dean.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says. “You have the wrong guy.”

And by extension ‘you’re going to have to get out of my house.’  
He doesn’t speak it, but he’s thinking it real loud. What kind of exterminator do you call for a child infestation?

“Look, I don’t know your mother, okay?”

“Yes, you do,” the kid says. “Jody Smith.”


	7. Chapter 7

_God._

_I’m sorry._

_I’m trying. I really am._

Sam doesn’t have to tell God that the harder he tries, the worse things get. God knows even better than Sam does, the multitude of sins and all the ways he’s failed.

_I don’t know what I…_

_Please watch over Kevin._

_And that guy. The one the street._

He leaves out the part about the nakedness. God knows that, too.

_Keep them safe in your care._

_And mom and dad. And Sarah._

_Um… Yeah._

_Sorry I haven’t been to church. Just… things get crazy with school._

_But I will. Sometime. So, that’s it._

_Amen_

A deep breath and Sam lays with his eyes closed for a few minutes. Maybe a half hour. Ought to try praying for sleep. Instead, he grabs his laptop and surfs the nonsense until he passes out.


	8. Chapter 8

(Friday) 10/22 - 84 Days

It’s nearly 2 PM when Dean forces his eyes open. Whatever happened last night, still hurts. Deep, purple bruises mark his arms and thighs. His back hates him. His asshole is ground turkey. Not beef. Low-grade turkey.

He rolls his bottom half to the floor, legs dangling while his head rests on the mattress. He’ll move when he can’t hold in the piss any longer. 

The mirror is a mistake. Dean peers through slitted eyes at the early morning freakshow he has become. 

It never used to be that way. There was a time when Dean would bounce off the bed like a shiny penny with his hair all sexy and wild. Skin smooth and glowing, regardless of what he’d done the night before. Right now, he’s inspiration for a horror film. 

Too close to the mirror and the image blurs. What’s with his fucking eyes these days? He has to stand at a perfect distance to see himself clearly and it’s… 

Tough. Hard to look at. Gone is the pretty little boy he used to be. 

He dumps a handful of cold, creamy Olay crud into his palm and slathers it over his face. When that’s washed away, he plasters on a few spot treatments. The crow’s feet keep glaring and there’s no easy fix for them. Dean’s skin is withering like a plum in the sun.

He drags his exsanguinated bulldog face to the laptop, flips open to check his storefronts. Inventory is in order. Sales are consistent. He checks out of habit, not because he needs the income anymore. His expenses are more than covered for the next… 

A quick calendar check: 84 days. 

Cash flow remains as healthy as ever. Dean’s got more than enough money to fund the party and live extravagantly between now and then. What happens after that? The state seizes his assets? Who knows? Doesn’t care. 

He will bequeath Mildred his turntable, but the rest of it: the 72” TV, the Italian suede sofa, the whole penthouse apartment - will probably wind up at Goodwill.

People make a big, hairy deal about suicide, but Dean has never been religious. If God exists, He’s going to punish Dean for the way he lived, not the way he died. While the rest of humanity walks around dreading their death day, Dean is looking forward to it. Life is more vivid when you know how much time you have left.

Plans for the party are coming together beautifully. Venue, DJ, drinks, and chemical candy. The only thing that remains is for Dean’s chemist to design the perfect last euphoria. And, of course, for Dean to select the last fuck of his life. Big decision, but it doesn't have to happen today.

He dresses in grey sweats and a t-shirt, takes a dump, and then walks into his living room where the events of the last night pop into vivid relief. 

His sofa and floor are littered with brown children. 

A loud voice in Dean's head suggested putting them out last night. He let them stay out of sheer shock at hearing Jody’s name. He’d figured she was dead by now. She might as well have been. It’d been more than 20 years since the last time they spoke. It shows serious audacity to send these rugrats, as if shared genetics entitles them to sleep on his floor. 

According to the Freddie Mercury look alike, Ares, she’ll be back in 2 days.  
If she's late by an hour, they are going to CPS. Jody can pick them up there. 

Dean looks them over with his hands on his hips. The only one awake is the pretty one - Adonis - wordlessly tracking Dean’s movements.

What kind of maniac names their kids after Greek gods? Dean knows the answer but chooses not to think about it. What kind of maniac has five fucking kids?

Dean knows exactly dick about looking after children. He knows how he grew up, which he wouldn’t wish on anyone. 

“All right.”

He wakes them with a few loud claps, makes them all green smoothies, and then walks them to the nearest school. 

Ares, their mouthpiece, says, “We don’t go to school.”

“Well, you do now.”

Dean starts to walk away. 

“How will we get back?”

It would be a relief to leave them here and let the school people figure it out. Maybe that’s what he’ll do, but Dean promises to pick them up here at 6 PM. School should be done by then. Who knows?

Jody’s kids seem old enough for school, although maybe not the little ones. He doesn’t ask, in case they’re not.

Dean pulls up his hoodie and jogs the eight blocks to Gold’s. He plugs his ears before he enters. The bass comes through, but it’s subdued. What even is this crap? Techno? House? Is he at a rave or the gym?

Dean cranks his Zeppelin and opts for the punching bags to warm up. Ideally, he ignores the other people at the gym this time of day. The place is overrun with stay-home moms whose youngest kids are in elementary school. No excuse for the baby fat, girlfriend. The kind of women who sip Starbucks lattes while walking on a zero incline at 2.5 MPH and tell themselves it’s better than being at home on the sofa with Oprah and a bag of Doritos. 

One of them eyes Dean, probably wondering why her husband doesn’t look like this. It’s because her husband sits at a desk all day, running up his blood pressure. The typical middle American male has a constant cocktail of work-stress, wife-stress, kid-stress, bill-stress swishing through his veins. Like he’s in the steppe being chased by a lion 24 hours, 7 days a week. When he gets home from staring at his computer screen all day, he eats whatever meatloaf, potatoes and limp dead carrots his overweight woman puts in front of him. 

Dean smiles at Betty Crocker. If she only knew, she’d be judging his lifestyle, too.

Cardio complete, he hydrates and gets ready for the Hour of Power. The only competition for the free weights is dark-skinned. Late twenties. Running back’s physique. 

He nods. Dean nods.  
The key is eye contact. If the guy holds it, Dean will smile and offer to spot. 

But the guy yanks his brown eyes away. Not today, not this prey.  
There was a time Dean could have any dude in this gym. 

Ninety minutes later, he's pushing a cart through the automatic doors into My Organic Market. He pulls up the hoodie and keeps his head low. 

He’s barely started to load fruit into his basket before the reason he almost didn't enter this store strolls down the aisle. Delicious, tight Cole, whose shirt is too small and pecs are just right. Wide smile. Thirty or so. Some kind of vet - Afghanistan or Iraq. 

Cole would have been a candidate for last fuck if it weren’t for the puppy complex. Dean is not looking for a commitment or even a return phone call. He’s searching for someone to perform one specific task. 

The moment he sees Cole, he abandons his cart and speed walks in the opposite direction. 

“Hey, Dean!”

Shit.

“Dean. Wait up, man.”

Dean breaks into a jog. It might appear that he’s stolen something, but it’s a risk he’s willing to take. Before he makes it back through the double doors, something slippery on the tiles sends his left foot flying. He lands hard on his ass.

Cole stoops and clasps onto his wrist to help him stand.

Who isn’t a sucker for a great looking guy with intense heaven-blue eyes? But what's difficult to grasp about a one-night stand?

“You were going to call.”

Why does the produce boy at the organic market think Dean wants to live happily ever after with him? 

Cole reaches out but Dean snakes away from the hand. Does he honestly think that one fuck entitles him to touch? Why would Dean want to sit around talking about his feelings and swapping coming out stories?  
Decent in bed, but that’s all it was supposed to be. Not…  
This. 

“I did,” Dean says. “You didn’t get my message?”

“No.” 

“That’s weird. Well, I called you.”

“I thought we had a good time,” Cole says on the verge of whining.

He'd tried to tell Dean his war tales. Fresh-faced ocean-eyed Cole staring up like Dean owes him an explanation, an apology, and that phone call. 

“So, can I expect to hear from you, Dean?” Cole asks. “Or was I some kind of fling?” 

The word 'fling' suggests days of romance. Walks in the park. Laughter by candlelight. Dean let this guy fuck him. That's not a fling.

Cole steps close enough to whisper, “Call me okay?”

“Sure. Absolutely.” 

He nods and walks away. 

This is a good store, but Dean will never be back.

***

In the shower, he sings More Than a Feeling like he's at FedEx field. Loofah stick microphone. The temperature and water pressure are right. Life is good.

Dean gets out, wraps one towel around his waist, and dries his hair with another one. 

The guy in the mirror squints back through the fog. Like this, he almost resembles his former self. If Dean wipes away the steam, he’ll be wondering why Cole even wants anything to do with him.

A salmon steak. Grated carrot, apple, celery, and ginger. Little olive oil, vinegar, and agave. Bam. 

Dean recently read about a guy who drowned himself in vinegar. Now, that’s creativity.

After lunch, he clicks over to a bookmarked page: the nearest clinic offering Botox, collagen treatments, this new technique called Thermatight. All the models on the site are a decade younger than he is. None of them is as hot as he was, but what fucking good does that do him now?

Dean scampers back to the bathroom, pulls the skin taut around his eyes. 

He could eat raw slaw and salmon for the rest of his days and he’ll never look like that again. All those smooth, tight young things on the website make Dean want to eat them and crap them out like Time does with all of us. 

He wastes an hour scrolling through before and after photos. Somehow, that leads to flipping through model images like a housewife with an Ikea catalog. Cinnamon curls. Cornsilk waves. Honey-hued skin. Coconut colored skin. Milk-bright teeth. Creamy skin flecked with freckles like toffee. So many ways to be beautiful. Not one of them over 25.

Dean could have a procedure done right before the party, so he’s looking his best at the viewing. But if they botch the job, he'll be in his coffin looking like a lizard. That would be a god damned travesty.


	9. Chapter 9

“She walks into the room and I ask her to introduce herself,” Sam says. “Athena Walker. Totally normal.  
Then I asked her to tell the class how old she is. Do you know what she says? ‘Technically, I’m 5, but my birthday is September 3rd and I believe age should be calculated by conception, not birth.”

Andrea’s brow shoots up, but she quickly cools her expression.

"I had her read from various websites. We got to a 9th-grade level before the content was inappropriate," Sam continues. "This is after she asked what the computer was."

Amelia nods. “Okay, so, a bright little girl with no tech at home."

“She spent the rest of the day wandering around the classroom" Sam says. "I asked her to sit down, she asked me why she should.”

“Was she disruptive?”

“No, just… Obviously never been in a school setting.”

"So, what do you want to do?”

“I don’t know."

Sam has been considering this since the little girl entered his classroom this afternoon. His first impression was that Athena was adorable: angelic face, omni-ethnic appearance, and wavy, dark hair of a 21st century Disney princess. Right now all he can think about is learning her precise IQ.

"Testing. Probably advanced placement.” It's a premature assessment after having a child in his class for one afternoon, but Athena's cognition is far above average. “What is the home situation?”

“We don’t know that, Sam. We’re standing by to see."

Amelia's calm in the most extreme situations is a trait Sam has always admired. The only reason he's not springing from his seat calling MENSA is his colleague's composure.

"All we know is that they were dropped off here," she says. "Four kids. No adult. They just wandered into the school like lost puppies."

"Ages?"

"Two to fourteen."

"And you haven't called CPS, why?"

"They say their mother is coming. That 'the People' will split them up, which, as you know ..."

Sam nods. That's a fair prediction. He likely would have already called Child Protective Services and in their attempt to place the children, they'd almost certainly be put into separate homes. Amelia was right to show patience.

Sam scoots his chair closer to her desk and rests his elbow there. “Well, she needs more than I’m giving the class.”

It’s a cheap trick, encroaching on Amelia's space. Sam leans back, closing his eyes and restarting with an actual argument rather than trying to seduce his colleague into doing what he wants.

"I'd like to create an alternative curriculum for her. Something that parallels what her peers are doing, but is appropriate for her learning capacity."

“Tell me this, Sam. Are you still tutoring, and working at the soup kitchen on weekends.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“And what did you do last summer?”

She already knows this, but Sam reminds her. “I built houses in Ecuador.”

“Until you got sick and had to come home.”

He shrugs. Amelia knows him better than anyone these days. At least she knows the part Sam isn't ashamed of. There are other parts of himself he’d rather carve away with a jagged knife.

“You know, you can’t get overly involved in this.”  
Every few months, Amelia gives Sam this spiel.  
“What are you doing for yourself while you're trying to be everything to everyone else?”

“I’m fine,” Sam says. “I just want to make sure this little girl gets what she needs?

“Which isn’t up to you.”

“But it is up to you.”

Amelia sighs and caps her pen. “Maybe. As I said, we don’t know what the situation is, Sam. We’ll wait until the mother comes, and then we'll see.”

“Will I be there for that?”

“I assume you want to be.”

“What’s happening at home is key,” Sam says. “We have a responsibility to—”

“Okay. Okay, Sam. Geez.”

“Thank you.” He stands.

If there’s anything more Amelia could do for him, she surely would. She’s good at her job. And Sam knows how she feels about him.

Being one of two males on staff at an elementary school has brought an intensity of attention into his life Sam didn't expect when he decided to study early childhood education. Teaching was a way to make the most lasting positive impact on the world. It was education or medicine, and he didn't want the falsely exalted status doctors often boast.

Although most of his classmates in college were women, Sam did not anticipate that one day he'd be getting love notes from fifth-grade girls. He didn’t expect to be plucking October Valentines off his computer screen. He didn’t realize he’d be navigating the weird water of colleagues and students' mothers whispering about his ass or gazing with unmistakable longing.

To her credit, Amelia has been a subtle admirer. Some days, she brings him coffee, checks in on his class. And she is getting him into this meeting.

Of course, it's also possible that Sam is reading affection into their professional relationship that isn’t there. That would be preferable.

“Sam?”

He stops, turns, and waits for whatever she wants to say.

Amelia points. “What happened to your face?”

Where the hell would he start? If Sam could put it to words, Amelia would listen. Then she would have a very different view of him. Less favorable. More disgusted. She wouldn't ever look at him with this kindness again.

Sam huffs and shakes his head. “Weird night.”


	10. Chapter 10

The kids stand like statues in front of the school. They must see Dean across the street waving, but they don't move their little butts. Who has all night for this?

So, it's after 7 PM. At least he came back. Technically, not his problem. But he’s here now and the rug-rodents need to move it, because the man has plans.  
  
There's a woman and a giant standing with the kids. The worst that could happen if Dean leaves now is that they call the cops instead of him. Jody can pick up her brood at the station. 

He's turning on his heels to skedaddle when a deep voice calls after him. The old woman waves. Not a swish of the wrist or a 'see ya later.'. An adamant ‘Come hither.' This is one of those slam on the gas or pay the fine situations, but Dean doesn’t flee. 

His feet are glued to the spot by the rapid approach of a large, beautiful male. A strange rush of familiarity and longing knocks Dean sideways. All he can do is stand and watch and whisper, “Damn.”

Just the way he moves inspires a bone-deep warmth. Not that Dean believes in that stuff, but it's almost like there’s a halo over the guy. 

Oh, he's seen plenty of attractive men. While this guy looks damn good, it’s not that. If cosmic connection was a thing, Dean would be spouting planet alignment bullshit. Like he knows the guy. Has met before. In another lifetime. 

Right. Yeah. 

Another flicker of nonsense and the realization dawns: this guy is it. He’s the one. This is Dean’s last fuck. 

Dark, shoulder-length hair (longer than necessary) frames a severe, angular face. Broad, powerful shoulders. Long, slim legs.

G. Sus. 

The closer he gets, the more exquisite. He parks in front of Dean: well over 6 feet, with a stern, disapproving expression that makes a man hungry for his punishment. 

Fact is, this big boy is probably hitched to his high school sweetheart with 2.5 kids, a rescue dog, and a white fence. He has that wholesome, youth pastor look.

Doesn’t matter. He’s the guy.  
Dean leans in for a whiff: robust and sweet with a tinge of dark. 

“What are you wearing?”

The big guy didn’t see the question coming. He clears his throat and glances back at the wicked witch and the urchins. 

“Your cologne,” Dean asks. “What is that?”

The youth pastor shakes the question out of his head and switches lanes, hard. “You dropped off these children this morning?”

The voice rumbles off him, low and firm. Made for discipline.

Dean smiles and the big guy almost visibly recoils. 

“Sir. Are you their guardian?”

“No. No way,” Dean says. “I’m doing someone a favor. For two days.”

Not two and a half. Sure as hell not three.

“You just dropped them off this morning.”

“Yeah. It’s a school, right?”

“It’s not a day care, sir. And even if it were, we have rules and procedures.”

Mmm. Yummy. Dean broke the rules. Bad Dean. 

"Sir?"

“So, what? Do I need to pay somebody?” 

Any price for his final night to be with this immaculate beast. This guy doesn’t look like the type who’d take cash, though. It’s going to require creativity to crack this one. 

Dean searches for the angle that will shift the guy's frown to a blush and a grin. Later, Dean will work on hearing him pant and groan and… 

"Sir?"

So, when the guy suggests they enter the building, Dean follows like a cartoon character floating behind a trail of alluring aftershave. 

“We need someone to take responsibility for these children,” the lemon-faced woman now sitting behind the desk turned out to be the principal.

The children are huddled behind Dean's chair and that of his new mark. 

"We assume you're related."

“Well, they belong to my sister.” It’s the first time Dean has said that out loud and the word sours his tongue. “She’s responsible for them.”

“And where is she?”

The kids don't look like they know. Ares (the teeth) speaks up, “She’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Well, then, until she arrives, you’re responsible.” The principal is addressing Dean.

He only came in here to get closer to the big guy. He'd rather dodge responsibility like a hot dagger. He’d openly deny any connection to these pests, but the big guy is looking straight at him.

“I wish we weren’t familiar with this kind of situation," he says. "But in this profession, we are.”

The principal takes over, “Mr. Campbell is one of our finest teachers and he’s agreed to be a personal liaison.”

Campbell, huh? Like the soup. Like the model.   
Personal liaison sounds promising. 

“If you need help getting them registered for school or health care…” Campbell offers.

That won’t be necessary, but it is Dean's in. 

He opens his hand. “So, you have a business card or…”

“I can write down my email address,” Mr. Campbell says and scribbles onto a post-it note. He slides it across the table rather than place it in Dean's palm. “You can contact me for any reason.”

_Oh, I will, handsome._

Dean rolls his lips together to keep himself from singing Hallelujah. This was too easy. And it turns out, these children are not utterly useless. He’s going to have to thank Jody for her little stunt, right after he smacks the shit out of her. 


	11. Chapter 11

While the iron is still glowing red with the kids at his place, Dean prepares to strike. In two days, he and Sam Campbell have nothing to talk about. Today, Dean has the guy’s full attention. All they need is this one thing in common for him to work his way under Campbell's skin.  
  
_< DS@DeanSmith.com_  
_to Samuel.Campbell@dcps.gov_

Dear Mr. Campbell,

We should get together and talk about the sweet, poor, beautiful children. I'm free all night.

Yours,   
Dean Smith  
(202) 374-8292

Lose the adjectives. Better to keep it low key. Nobody responds well to desperation. 

Campbell responds within the hour. This man is dedicated. Dean's chest heats with an anticipation he hasn’t felt in years. He might have been a teenager the last time he gave a damn if someone called back. 

_< Samuel.Campbell@dcps.gov_  
_to DS@DeanSmith.com_

Mr. Smith,  
Let me do some research so I'm prepared to make useful recommendations. Then, we can discuss an appropriate time and location.

Respectfully,   
Sam Campbell

Dean scoffs at the clinical tone and the delay. But the game is afoot. Time to play. 


	12. Chapter 12

Dean Smith's email shows promising interest in the kids’ welfare. Still, Sam can’t shake the intuition that the man isn't the fittest choice for a guardian, especially not for a girl of Athena’s apparent capabilities. 

There are three basic classifications of kindergartners: 

Ready - the kids who show up recognizing their alphabet, colors, shapes. They already know how to tie their shoes. Someone at home gives a damn. 

Not Ready - These kids couldn’t tell a letter Z from a number 3 and it takes them the entire year to learn it. They can sit still for ten minutes at a time before they require a wiggle break. They respond favorably to shouting but Sam prefers physical games, and music, and dancing.

God Help! - Some children are not cut out for school. There are usually clinical reasons: ADD, dyslexia. Sometimes, trouble at home makes them unable to adapt. In extreme cases, both. 

Every ten years or so, Sam encounters a student like Athena Walker promises to be. A student who makes him feel like he touched that comet for a brief moment. The Oprah Winfreys, Neil DeGrasse Tysons, the Ben Carsons. Every teacher they ever had helped steer those minds. 

Sam settles in with a cup of tea and a copy of The Gifted Child. Every few pages, though, he puts the book down and tries to recall where he saw Dean's face. 

There's a Beatles song:

I've just seen a face  
I can't forget the time or place  
Where we just met

It takes a hell of a face to inspire a song.   
Dean Smith would qualify, but Sam hasn’t written a song or touched an instrument in years. 

A remarkably attractive man, but it’s not just that. Sam has seen him before. At the grocery store? In a library?

When he figures it out, Sam will mention the connection in an offhand way and then —

Then, what? 

He's never asked someone out.   
And Dean Smith isn’t giving off Happily-Ever-After vibes. 

Sam can’t classify Smith's vibes at all. He spends most of his time with women and small children. Dean Smith seemed interested, but if so, in what? The man knows nothing about Sam other than how he looks and that he cares about children.

That’s quite a lot, actually. Enough to start a meaningful conversation.

What does Sam know about Dean Smith? That he dropped four children in front of an elementary school and left them there until nearly 8 PM.   
He also took them in.

And Sam has seen the face and the physique, but to focus on that would be superficial and shallow. One can appreciate the Lord’s handiwork in a respectful, tasteful way. Dean Smith is a gorgeous human being. 

Time to stop thinking about it.

After all, looks can deceive. Sam’s father once gave a sermon that if the devil took human form, he'd be a beguiling woman. Sam had been young at the time - 10 or 11 - but old enough to know that the most beautiful woman in the galaxy wasn’t going to convince him to do anything evil. Still, Sam could relate. If the devil had dressed up like Kirk Cameron back then, young Sam would have a damn hard time resisting. 

That was a long time ago. Sam's headlong trip down Nostalgia Lane is interrupted by a new text message. 

If Dean Smith is asking to see him now, how would Sam respond? 

A chuckle at his own romantic naïveté. It’s all right to get a little goofy, as long as it doesn’t leave the confines of one’s own mind. Besides, Dean Smith doesn’t have his cell phone number. Fun fantasy, though. 

Fun until Sam sees that the text is from Kevin. Then his heart sinks into his stomach and chases a chill up his neck. 

Friday 10:59 PM  
KT - Can I come over?

So, he’s out of the hospital. Was he released or did he walk out? The only way to know is to talk to him.

Rather than reply, Sam reaches over and turns off the lamp. The house will look entirely dark from the outside. 

He replies - Glad you’re okay.

Ten seconds later, his cell rings.

Texting is relatively easy. Talking with Kevin gets complicated.  
There’s never any telling what the kid will do.

“Hey,” Sam answers, whispering for no reason. 

“I want to see you.”

Right to the chase. The kid never was subtle. 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Kevin.”

“I need to, though.” He’s either been crying or is about to start. His voice wavers and he’s already having that same effect on Sam's resolve. 

Agreeing to see Kevin would be the single stupidest thing to do.

“Kevin, I—”

“Sam, don’t, okay? Look, I’m going to just come by, so we can talk.”

“Kevin, do not. Listen,” Sam holds out a hand like a frantic crossing guard, even though Kevin can’t see. “You called it off. It was the right choice.”

“It was stupid. You were … I wanted you to want me more.”

“Kevin.”

“I need you. You know that.”

“You don’t need—”

“I’m coming over.”

“Kevin…”

The call goes dead. Sam sits in the dark, replaying the conversation in his head. Should he have said something different? Should he have let the call go to voice mail? Should he pack, leave town and never look back?

Two minutes later, there’s a knock on the door.


	13. Chapter 13

While Dean is waiting to hear the 'appropriate time and location,' life must go on. If it can’t be the gorgeous Mr. Campbell tonight, that doesn’t mean Dean has to mope about it. He hasn’t sat around moping over anyone since he was a teenager.

Besides, his apartment is full of vermin. He couldn’t stay here tonight if he wanted to. 

There was a time when Dean would lay around, clicking through the channels. Maybe calling out for Thai. 

No more. He's a man on a mission.   
Until today, that mission included finding the last face he’ll ever see. The last hands he'll feel as he slips into eternity. Or nothingness.  
Whatever’s next.

First stop, Ash’s den. On the surface, Ash is this goofy looking kid with a mullet. He’s also fucking brilliant. Dean taps his code into the security system and waits until the sliding steel door scrapes open. 

Ash is wearing his typical uniform: sleeveless rocker shirt, flight goggles. The tail of his mullet is up in a hair net. This mess of a man is the guru. Dean follows to the altar where magic is bubbling.

Dean peeks over Ash’s shoulder as if he could make sense of the chemistry. Ash patiently abides the curiosity and tries to explain. Interest in the detail trails off with the word ‘compound’.

This is no high school lab. Ash’s day job of producing meth got him ejected from MIT. It has afforded him a state of the art setup to experiment. It's messy but cutting edge. He's spared no expense and the quality of his product proves it. 

It’s none of this synthetic crap that leaves your mouth tasting like you’ve been sucking on a nickel and your head feeling the size of one. This guy could benefit from fashion advice, but he’s a gifted chemist.

“I've got something new for you,” Ash says rubbing his fingertips together. “Calling it Oblivion.”

“Sounds good so far.”

“Still ironing out kinks. You up for a little preview?”

“Always.” The electric chair beside the sofa is surprisingly comfortable. Dean settles in and holds open his palm.

With a pair of tongs, Ash delivers a pretty, little miracle the size of a pinky nail, shaped like a football. Iridescent blue with a pearly tinge. 

Dean closes his eyes and receives the sacrament.  
Praise Ash's holy name.

When he opens them again, he’s lying on the floor with his pants hanging open. His nuts hurt. A crazy-looking guy in pilot’s goggles stoops and peels back his eyelids.

“You back? Think I need to tone down the lithium.”

Dean blinks and tries massaging his tender balls.

“Dean. I said how many fingers?”

Fingers. Three. Dean says so, but the guy in the goggles looks unconvinced.

Dean sits up and regrets it. He lays back. 

Goggles brings a drink and a stethoscope. He covers Dean’s eyes with a palm and counts backwards from thirty.

Dean squirms awake on a stretcher with a machine beeping. Ash is measuring his blood pressure.

“That was weird.”

Dean will take his word for it. Right now, he feels like there's an ax jutting from his skull.

“You need to go home and sleep off the edge,” Ash says. “Drink a shitload of water.” 

Dean pays for a bottle of Oblivion and leaves the ashram with a slight balloon-head.

***

Ash is talented, but Dean didn’t double douche to go home.  
He’s got a hotel room and a mini-bar.

All right, boys, come and get it.

The sheets reek of industrial-strength detergent. Hopefully, that means they’re clean. Dean lays in the dark, sucking on a mint. For kicks, he'd shoves another one up his ass and lets the icy air lick his eager hole.

The first taker arrives with poppers, but no gusto. He’s in there. He’s doing it, but the whole thing lacks conviction.

“You know what? Stop,” Dean says, rolling over. “ Just stop it.”

Big, confused eyes blink back. The guy holds his glistening lubed-up dick in one hand.

“I just want you to know,” Dean says. “In case someone asks in the future, you are not a top. Having a dick and being willing to stick it in another guys’ ass doesn’t make you a top.”

“Fuck you.”

That was the idea. Not lovemaking or whatever the hell that was supposed to be. Life is too short for this. Dean climbs off the bed. “Just get your shit and go.”

No one penetrates deep enough anymore. And it’s not a size issue. There are plenty of large cocks. Where is a man who can pound until Dean passes out?

He sighs and flops on the edge of the bed, flipping through Grindr’s possibilities. The dud is still standing there. 

“Seriously,” Dean tosses over his shoulder. “Go.”

He leaves the door partly open so he won’t have to get off his belly when the next guy arrives. As his high mellows, Dean passes in and out of consciousness. Maybe he doesn’t need another visitor. 

Some british guy once killed himself by hammering two nails into his skull. That might be a more expedient plan than Dean's.

There are plenty of guys who'd be totally on board with Dean’s idea. Freaky boys in black eyeliner with nipple piercings. Those emo wackadoodles are always good for an intense bounce. Sometimes they cry. But that's not what Dean wants.

Campbell isn’t looking for that kind of adventure. You can see that by looking at him. He’s one of those whole-life-ahead-of-him men who fuck with feeling, commitment, and passion. 

Dean needs a man who fucks out of desperation. The kind of man dumped Dean and his clothes on the side of the road. In an instant, he remembers what happened that night. He’d swallowed a beautiful, fat cock which was then stuffed into his hole while another dick lined up to take his mouth. Dean had started convulsing (completely unrelated to the spit-roasting), which is when they carted him and his belongings to the side of the road.

Bonus, he also, now, recalls where his car is parked.

He doesn’t tell everybody what he’s planning. So they don’t get weirded out. But also because it’s a damn good idea. Can’t have anyone stealing thunder before Dean's big day. If they want to copycat, fine. 

His original inspiration came from Angelina Jolie's brave decision to preemptively lop off both of her tetas. “Fuck you cancer. My life is mine.”

Dean’s life belongs to him.

Aging might be pleasant if you’re one of those thick-necked muscular daddies who guys still find hot with a beer belly. 

Dean was once a godling.   
Then he grew into a lithe, big-mouthed jock.   
Now, he’s rapidly aging into a neutral no man’s land. Maybe Clooney and Cooper can pull off silver fox. Dean wants nothing to do with it.

What is he without his looks? A deflating balloon long after the party’s over. That old guy dancing alone at the club. 

He’s never seen cosmetic surgery results that don't leave victims looking like sad, expressionless reptiles. 

Angie’s voluntary mastectomy was no tragedy. Neither is Dean’s plan.   
Suicide is a brave choice when you realize there’s no good reason to keep living in this bullshit world. Look at Mildred clinging to life and youth, dying her hair, wearing yoga pants at 75. Shriveling and dying alone.

Dean has been entertaining colorful exit strategies for a few years. He’s not going to choke himself on a bible. Nor will he leap into a tiger habitat. Too much room for error with a gun. Pills would be even less certain without proper expert care. What Dean has requested from Ash is a pervasive, euphoric high, a prolonged libido that culminates with a terminating double wamm-o to the brain and heart. Extra points for an internal sensation of fireworks. Ash is working on it.

Epic.

Dean lays with his face on his arms, sweaty skin prickling with anticipation as the door squeaks open. 

The next guy doesn’t bother to remove his pants. Climbs onto the bed, pulls Dean’s cheeks apart, spits on his ass, and slams in. 

If Dean hadn’t already been fucked tonight, and if he wasn’t still somewhat high, he’d be in a world of hurt. As it is, there’s just dull, empty fullness. The guy does his thing and leaves.   
Dean never sees his face.


	14. Chapter 14

Sam grips the armrests. His grandfather’s chair. The one where Big Sam sat and told Little Sam all his Marine adventures.

Kevin knocks again. 

“Sam?”

His voice is muffled through the wood.

Sam doesn’t move. There are several ways this could go.   
It could be a replay of last night when Sam let Kevin into the house and their conversation rapidly escalated to one-sided shouting - with Kevin eventually storming into the bathroom only to stumble out, slurring, “Why don’t you want me anymore?”

Then he collapsed into Sam’s arms. The rest was 7 hours of sheer horror in the ER. 

Or, there’s the possibility that Kevin will shoot up or pop his pills or whatever he does and OD on the front porch this time. 

Sam could call Kevin's mother, although she's made clear her opinions of him. How do you convince someone you didn’t brainwash their son if that’s what they choose to believe?

Considering Kevin’s record, Sam would rather not call the police. 

The knocking goes on for a while and then becomes thumping. Probably kicking. Then it stops. 

Sam sighs and puts down the book in lieu of the laptop.

Kevin rarely updates his Facebook page anymore. Sam only ever joined the site at his request. He'd spent a few hours stalking old acquaintances. Then, he'd gotten a message from Brady.

Facebook is no help in understanding Kevin’s frame of mind. He hasn't posted in months.  
What is he thinking?

This morning, Linda Tran posted a picture of the sunrise shining behind a cross. It’s kitschy but nice. Her caption reads: Praise be to God for preserving my son’s life after a tragic accident. 

Does an overdose qualify as an accident?

It was tragic and Kevin did survive. As a matter of fact, the boy is probably sitting on Old Sam’s tire swing waiting for Sam to soften up and let him inside. 

Don’t do it. Write Linda Tran to come get him. She’d fly over here and whisk her precious little boy away. That’s what Sam should have done a year ago.

Linda Tran’s Facebook history consists almost exclusively of photos of her only begotten son: Kevin smiling with his high school diploma. The ref holding his hand aloft while the boxing belt hangs from his other hand. Kevin in that photo glistening with sweat, exhaustion pouring off him. And pride. 

That was the night he’d waltzed into Sam’s house with his eye bandaged, like the crown prince of the world. He'd announced his win and practically dragged Sam into bed. 

That’s not exactly a fair characterization. Sam had not required dragging. He'd acted irresponsibly and then been ill-equipped to clean up his mistake for the subsequent eight months. 

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. One well-timed “No” would have avoided all this pain. 

Eleven years Sam was a friend to the Trans. He’d taught Kevin in first grade back when he was just a fledgling teacher. Kevin - one of those God help! students who improved throughout the year, only to falter terribly as he progressed through school. Learning disabilities, his mother’s three jobs, gang violence in his neighborhood. A perfect storm of setbacks. Mr. Campbell was a lighthouse teacher Kevin came back to visit at least once a year. 

After Kevin’s juvenile assault conviction, it was Mr. Campbell’s suggestion, in conjunction with the probation officer that the young man take up boxing. For the first year, Mr. Campbell drove Kevin to and from the gym. He secretly donated Kevin’s gloves (and Alyssa’s cleats and Devonte’s space camp tuition). 

When Kevin got his GED and applied for an internship at the school, it was Mr. Campbell who vouched for him. Sam wrote a glowing, honest recommendation that Kevin would be an inspiration to kids from difficult backgrounds. Mr. Campbell was even pleased to take Kevin Tran as an assistant for a few months and announce to that year’s class that he’d taught Kevin when he was a little boy, their age. 

Kevin was 18 then and deciding on a career. That had launched a terrific conversation about their aspirations. 

Mr. Campbell was beyond content to let Kevin kiss and lick and worship him in places he hadn’t been touched in longer than he cared to recall. Thirty seconds after his orgasm, euphoria withered into profound regret. 

So goes the ballad of Mr. Campbell and Kevin Tran. 

Sam refreshes his tea. Stares at his unclear reflection in the dark glass of the kitchen window. That’s life, isn’t it? A series of bad ideas and their repercussions. 

Probably also on Facebook - Dean Smith. 

That is, obviously, not Sam’s business. Although, to some extent it is. If he can glean information about the man, it may explain why he was so late picking up the children. And why he kept looking at Sam that way. 

Admit it. You want to know if he could possibly be interested. If there’s an old picture from last year with his arm around a guy, both of them smiling at the beach, then you’ll know. Unless it's his brother.  
On the other hand, there could be a picture of him with his boyfriend at dinner last night. That’d be good to know, too.

Just a confirmation that Sam didn’t imagine the attraction. 

Then again, what does it matter? Sam is not looking for a love connection. And even if he were, Dean Smith would not be a candidate. Sam won't find a picture of a boyfriend, but rather shots of a string of different guys, because that’s the vibe Dean gave off. He’s not a one-man man. He’s what Sam’s grandmother would have called a cad.

Which is fine. He’s entitled to be whatever kind of man he chooses, as long as he takes care of those kids.

Then again, Sam has had children in his class who suffer from chronic New Dad Syndrome. Mothers with a new boyfriend every month. Sam has learned to deal with a variety of home life situations and to classify how successful the children will be based on their parents' occupations, their attitudes, and sometimes simply by the type of car they drive. It’s not prejudice, it’s science. 

Sam could already place the call to CPS now and anonymously report the possibility of a dangerous environment? Or he could do what Amelia always advises and get more information. But Sam can already smell it. If they’re not in danger yet, wait for it. All it takes is for Dean Smith to bring home some guy with a bad attitude. 

There are a lot of Dean Smiths on Facebook, but this guy is one of a kind. 

He posts photos of himself:  
In a cowboy hat, showing off a new winter coat, in a freshly tailored suit, in his workout gear, on a beach in Speedos - and God, what a body. 

Inappropriate. Not why you’re here.

No memes. No pictures with boyfriends or friends. No pictures of the kids. Nothing but vanity shots. Selfies. 

Every now and again, Sam finds an Ussie, or whatever a self-snapshot of two people is called. In all of those, a different man has an arm slung over Dean's shoulder.

Jealousy is a sin. And it’s insane. Sam doesn’t know the man. Still, there’s an inexplicable twinge of territorial anger. As if Dean’s Smith’s flirting had entitled Sam to something that isn’t available now. 

It was never available. Dean Smith is not dating material. His kind of promiscuity makes homosexuals look depraved. And he almost certainly isn’t fit to be a guardian. 

Can we concentrate now?

Sam should close the computer. Or click away from this insufferable, gorgeous poser with his duck lips photo and his disgracefully tight jeans, and his unabashed displays of skin. 

It’s distressing, but it doesn’t prove wrongdoing. Dean's most recent selfies are from today. One at the gym and the other in a shimmering grey suit, in front of a bathroom mirror. Somewhere between this morning and this evening, he was sitting with Sam in the principal’s office. Had Sam expected there to be a selfie of that?

He also didn’t expect the sound of glass shattering in another room. However, he ought to get up and see about it. 

His heart pounds in his teeth. Chances are the police would see a small Asian kid and go easy on him. But his record. It’d be such a shame for his life to be ruined over something so stupid. Is breaking and entering a misdemeanor or a felony?

Sam could grab Old Sam’s baseball bat. Instead, he remains where he is, grinding his teeth until Kevin lumbers into the room and slumps on the sofa. 

He folds his bleeding hands in his lap, sniffs loudly, and swipes at his nose, smearing blood across his cheek before he says, “I just wanted to see you.”


	15. Chapter 15

10 AM. 

Dean’s head feels like someone screwed off the top and took a dump in his skull. So when UNKNOWN calls his phone, it's pure stupidity that compels him to answer.

“I need you to keep them.” 

Jody

Whose voice he hasn’t heard in 27 years.  
She sounds the same and completely different. She doesn’t bother with hello, or ask how Dean has been? Or how it was for him after she left. 

“A week. Two, tops,” she says. “Apollo has a little cash. They just need a place to sleep.”

“I don’t have any children, Jody. That’s not accidental.”

“I assume you’re still sleeping with men, Dean.”

“Doing my part to control the population.”

“And I can see that you’re still a self-centered little asshole?”

“And you’re still a raging bitch.”

She’s silent for a moment before her tone flips 180 degrees. “Dean, please.”

It must be physically painful for her to beg him.

“Jody, fuck you.”

She sighs. This is the part where Dean hangs up. His thumb hovers over the red circle before he brings the phone back to his ear. Why? To hear her breathe one last time.  
  
“… know you're rich. I never asked you for shit,” Jody says. “I got them away from him. I need a little more time to get us set up.”

It’s beyond surreal. He hasn’t heard thought that name in decades. At the mere mention of “Him,” Dean is 13 years old. Sweaty and shaking with nerves.

“Dean?”

“I’m … leaving on my birthday,” he says. “Whether they’re here or not.”

Then Jody’s gone. No dial tone, because phones don’t do that anymore. When Dean was a kid, if you hung up on someone, there was a satisfying click. Now, one second, there’s a voice. Then, there’s silence. 

Lava bubbling through his nervous system, Dean rages into the living room, picks up the nearest child’s sneaker, and hurls it at the TV. The shoe bounces harmlessly back onto the carpet, but they’re all at attention, sitting upright with wide dark eyes. 

Good.

“Round up your shit.”

Anything they leave is garbage. Not that they have more than the clothes on their backs. Ares and Adonis have backpacks. No telling what’s in there. 

Who cares? These kids are the state's problem now. Should have happened last night. To hell with Jody. This way, Dean won't have to see her face when she comes for them. 

27 years will turn into never and that’s perfectly fine.  
  
How long has she had his address, his phone number and never bothered to call or send a fucking postcard?

Fuck her. She’s not even worth how fucking pissed off he is right now, kicking his own pillow across the floor. 

“Let’s go!”

Dean storms to the door and stands with it open. The kids scramble to pull themselves together without even asking where they’re going.

Out. Just out of his face. Out of his life. Away. Gone. 

Dean’s cell rings. If it’s Jody, he’ll tell her where she can find her fucking brats. Another unknown number.   
Bitch

“Look, I’m done with this.”

“Mr. Smith?”

It’s Campbell. 

Suddenly, Dean’s pulse is thumping for an entirely different reason. 

“Hi.”

Sam Campbell is on the other line. Of all the freaking times to call. 

Dean's voice sounds stupid and breathless and off guard, but hopefully, not like he was about to drop off a pack of strays in the wilderness.

“Hello,” Campbell says, soft and calm. “It's short notice, I know, but do you have time now? If not, I could—”

“Yeah, no. I got time.”


	16. Chapter 16

This was once Dean’s definition of a good time: temporary conversions, as he calls them. 

Like an expert hunter craving the wiles of highly intelligent prey. Fox. Man. Dean used to take down straight boys like wild game and leave them shivering in his wake.  
It's been a while since he tried. Time to see if he still has the goods.

Starbucks is basic. Saturday morning at 11 is not a sexy time, but a specialist welcomes a challenge. 

To start, what to wear? Casual, professional, slutty.  
Dean selects a crisp, pale-green button-down shirt to bring out his eyes. Snug jeans, but not super tight. Oxfords, not sneakers. An imperceptible touch of foundation around his eyes. Splash of Bleu du Chanel. Black silk Calvin Klein briefs, not that he expects to get that far today, but better prepared. 

Now, early, on time, or a few minutes late? Dean gambles that Sam Campbell is a punctual guy who places value on that sort of thing. 

He leaves the children watching TV. They’ve been warned not to touch his fridge again. There is no children food in there. It's all organic, expensive and Dean's. He orders them another pizza. It’s the third time in the two days since they arrived, but they're lucky he's feeding them.

Before he leaves the apartment, Dean slides a dash of pure coke over his gums. Nothing weird and experimental. Not enough to be jumpy. Just enough to invigorate and embolden him. Whereas Ash creates modern miracles, cocaine is nature’s finest. 

As expected, Sam took similar care with his appearance.  
While disregarding style.  
What style? There is no style.  
Dean would characterize Sam's look as doughboy chic. No bite. No personality.

A fluffy brown sweater over a non-descript collared shirt. His jeans are formless tubes. His shoes are brandless, unless Target counts as a name these days. It’s a damn shame for such a beautifully made man to be attired without any imagination. Campbell isn’t even wearing the mystery cologne. He is, however, donning thick, black glasses which should be problematic when, in fact, they’re the only redeemable, inexplicably hot accessory to his ensemble.

He looks like a youth pastor.

When Dean was a kid, he visited church with a buddy a few times. There was this youth pastor: Reverend Doug, who gave off the same wholesome, sincere, warm fuzzy vibes as Sam Campbell. Dean used to pray like Hell that Reverend Doug would go all Catholic priest on him.  
Never happened.  
When Dean came onto him, it was a fiasco. But he learned from youthful crashes like that - the secret to cracking straight guys is pace. You can’t walk up to a dude in his church office and grab his crotch. Not if you’re expecting positive results.

Pace. And nuance. You’ve got to build trust. Make them see you as more than a dick. Make them see you as a person (they want to fuck). 

It had taken three months to crack the Czech guy at the Euro-Goods store. Patience well-applied. That man knew how to use his fricking tongue. Afterward, Dean received a frantic call from the guy’s wife hollering in a barely comprehensible accent about married men with children. 

Why should Dean care? He didn’t fuck the guy's children. That kind of shit wasn’t his problem. Once he’d cracked their shell, he’d swallow the nut and be done with it. 

Sam Campbell promises to be a very tasty nut, indeed. 

Starbucks. A crisp autumn morning.  
Bring on the game. 

Campbell looks agitated. He puts a book on the table, peeking over his shoulder as he hangs his shameful denim jacket on the chair. Mumbles about a drink and retreats to the barista as if he’s a little embarrassed to be seen with Dean. 

Good.

That means the guy understands. He's right to be nervous. But he's here, and considering it. All Dean needs is to be patient and tread lightly. Let Sam think he’s leading the dance. 

Campbell is an easy book. Samuel. Maybe Samson. Biblical name.  
Raised in church. Maybe even a Preacher’s Kid. He’s got that self-awareness. He knows people are watching him, waiting for him to trip up - so he never does. 

Not Catholic, which is too bad. Catholics are easy. They do whatever the hell they want and feel shitty about it until confession. Same basic story with Jews. A lot of guilt, no restraint. 

The vibes coming off Sam Campbell are distinctly Protestant. Maybe even low-key Evangelical. Probably not Jehovah’s Witness. Those guys are hard as fuck to fuck. Muslims from certain parts of the world, too. The easiest straight men are Western Europeans. They’ll try anything once. Why in hell not? What do they have to lose?

Most interesting by far was the Unitarian who believed Jesus was gay. Great conversationalist. Unfortunately, dull in bed. 

A man’s cultural, religious history is the combination to his psychological padlock. Sam Campbell is about 33. Probably married young so he could finally get laid. Only ever been with the one woman - a chipper, cookie-baking blonde. He can’t even admit to himself he looks at other women without being ashamed.  
Being with Dean is going to rock his ship something fierce. Might be good for him. 

Sam Campbell will order pumpkin spice latte, hot cocoa, or herbal tea. Dean would be one hundred dollars right now. 

Sam sits down with melting marshmallows floating in the mug. Dean smiles to himself. Being right is better than money.

Sam holds his mug in both hands, blows the steam off his drink. He has no idea how fucking delectable he is. Dean just watches for a moment and then finds an in: 

“What happened there?”

Sam blinks at the bandaid on his left pointer finger and disappears. He gazes at the floor. Dean's harmless ice breaker weirdly deflates him as if the guy cut his finger slicing someone’s throat. 

Dean points at a tiny wound on his neck. “Look, I nicked myself shaving. No biggie.”

Sam shakes his head and places a hand on his book as if it were the Bible. Dean had seen the title, but not bothered to touch it.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed Athena is a remarkable girl.”

Which one is Athena? The little one or the even littler one? Dean doesn’t ask. By force of will, he stops his eyes from rolling. He's not here to talk about those children. Of course, Sam Campbell has to justify this meeting to his wife, but nobody ever went to Dean’s parent/teacher things and he turned out great. The kids will be fine. Whatever happens to them is not Dean’s responsibility or his problem. 

Sam prattles on.

What a stunner. From the linebacker shoulders to those massive hands. Even the hippy hair works surprisingly well on him. 

There’s a mole on his chin. Another kissable one east of his mouth. One on the opposite side of his nose. Another over his eye. Hazel eyes: green, amber, and blue. Earnest. Dedicated.

Dean hasn’t seen anything so lickable in ages.  
His first point of business will be that mouth. Dean’s not listening to the results of Sam's research. He's plotting all the ways to repurpose Sam's tongue until the question:

“Have you heard from their mother?”

Dean's nose curls before he can stop it. “No.”

Which is a lie, but he’s not talking about Jody. Not with this guy or anybody else. 

“So, if you don’t mind me asking, Mr. Smith, what is your plan?”

What plan? The plan is, after this meeting, Dean is going to take Jody’s snot-nosed brats to the police station. He’s going to wait 24 hours, call Sam Campbell and cry about how much he misses them. That shit is going to go over like a GoodYear Blimp because Dean Smith is a genius. 

“I imagine with your lifestyle, having children around must be pretty inconvenient.”

“What?”

“I mean, I just assume that you — Someone like you isn’t really cut out… I mean, would rather not be bothered.”

Dean could be cool. He could let this repressed Jesus Freak tell him what he’s cut out for.

“I don’t mean…” Campbell starts up again. “I think we can agree that not every lifestyle is appropriate for young people.”

The right choice is not to make a scene. Do not be that queen who loses his shit like some Hollywood diva. Maintain low tones. Walk away.

“My lifestyle?” Dean asks quietly. “Buddy, you don’t know me.”

“I didn’t mean—“

Jody calls. Now this shit.  
Dean stops Campbell's stammering apology with a flick of his wrist. His mug crashes to the floor. Sam Campbell nearly leaps out of his skin at the sound and splash of a little hot coffee.

Dean yanks his jacket from the back of his chair. A Mey & Edlich West End jacket, thank you.

Does he like children? No. Does he want those rugrats in his house? No.  
Does he want to do Jody any favors? Hell, no.  
Is Dean going to let some self-righteous homophobic asshole tell him what he can and can’t do?  
Fuck that guy.  
Hot or not, Dean can do better.


End file.
